


Oculi Caeruli, Oculi Aurei

by Corona



Series: Playing with Fire [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blue Eyes, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Romance, Well of Sorrows (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: Dorian has more than a passing fancy with Leas' vivid blue eyes—and with Leas himself, not that he realises it. A pity he only does realise it in the aftermath of the Well of Sorrows, when one of the consequences of Leas' decision immediately comes to pass and Dorian must at the same time deal with his fear, anger, and insecurity.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Series: Playing with Fire [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551184
Kudos: 36





	Oculi Caeruli, Oculi Aurei

"I know I've said this before, _amatus_ ," Dorian murmurs, à propos of nothing, one evening when they're in the library together, "but I do love your eyes." He watches Leas as he speaks, and those eyes glimmer the most vivid blue and almost glow in the gathering dark. Strange that they haven't lost their power after he's spent so many months in his company.

Leas smiles, and his cheeks flush slightly pink, but he seems otherwise unaffected by the remark, which is no surprise. "Thank you," he says, "but so does everyone else. And that's not me being vain!" he adds quickly, with a grin. "You've heard what they say." He turns away, scanning the shelves, and Dorian doesn't miss the way he walks, the way he displays himself—his rear, most notably. He grins back at him and takes the bait, watches Leas' ass and hips sway as his smile turns into a smirk. He knows well what it feels like under his hands now, but ah, to watch it move…

"So I have," he says, recalling the praise he's heard people lavish on his eyes. Most overblown but also entirely appropriate was one of his clanmates, in a drunken state in the tavern, saying he had captured the light of the stars in his eyes when he had been born. (In response, another of his clanmates had wryly pointed out that his father had eyes the same shade, and he'd been born in the daylight). Had he not been thinking at the same time—had he not thought it many times before—that Leas _literally_ had the stars hung in his eyes, he might have found such a comment nauseatingly sentimental, but he was in no position to judge. And that was one instance among many. "They're two seconds away from writing a song about your eyes, I'm sure," he continues, and he wonders why it hasn't already happened. There's already _Nightingale's Eyes_ —why not one to their dear Inquisitor, too?

Leas ducks his head, and Dorian imagines for a second that he might be blushing. But then again, he might not. As he's said on previous occasions, he's heard it all before; small wonder only Dorian's praise has any effect on him now. "Well-earned, however," he says, as if it needs to be said. " _Oculi caeruli_ , as we say back home. They're not very common." Brown and grey eyes are the norm in Tevinter, and while grey eyes are seen as the very height of beauty, blue eyes are exceptional for their rarity. Oh, the attention Leas would attract for his eyes—and a shiver goes down his spine as he recalls what that would mean.

"Well, sure," Leas says. "But I have hair—" and he tosses his hair, his own favourite feature, like so. Dorian's smirk widens, and he shakes his head at the man's vanity. "—and a pretty face, and an ass." This time, the swaying of said ass is very _deliberate_. He's clearly begging for something good tonight… well, how can he deny him? "I'm not just a pair of eyes!"

Dorian chuckles. "Maker, there's an image," he says, and Leas giggles in response. "And I know you're not, but…" He sighs wistfully. "They're fun to get lost in."

How many times has he got lost in those eyes, anyway? Many, too many to count. Honestly, he was probably doomed from the first moment he saw them.

That first night they met, Dorian had been too distracted by the demons, and it had been too dark in the chantry for him to make out much of Leas' face under his cowl. He hadn't seen anything until they had started talking. Then, like some hero out of a story the servants used to tell him when he was small, Leas had pushed back his cowl at perhaps the most dramatic moment, while he was asking who Dorian was.

He'd been prepared to answer, but not for the sight of those bloody _blue_ eyes, shining out of an oval face framed with waves of silken red hair. A pretty face, a beautiful face, but it was the eyes that had arrested his attention and derailed his train of thought for a solid five seconds. Not one of his better moments, though he had at least recovered himself and got on with things with no other trouble. (Although he'd found it a little difficult to focus when the man had honest-to-Maker _bowed_ to him and told Cassandra that there was no reason they couldn't be polite. So charming.) After, he'd paid little attention to those eyes even though their vividness had caught him so off-guard. And going through the future together, he'd been a little too distracted to get distracted again, so to speak.

But after all that, after he had joined the Inquisition for good, there had been innumerable moments where he had looked on those eyes a little too long. Watching Leas in battle, the fierceness and determination that glimmered there, the way they seemed to turn mildly green whenever he closed a rift—that was one thing. Then there were all their conversations together, where those eyes had brimmed with interest, curiosity, and every other emotion their talks all brought up. It was much like reading a page on a book, they were so easy to see. Or every time Leas had discussed his ideals and what he wanted for the world, for his people, for the humans, those eyes had _shone_ with his sincerity, glimmered with joy, determination, and an honesty Dorian had seldom seen in Tevinter's upper echelons. After a while, he wasn't sure whether he was paying attention to Leas' words or merely gazing into his eyes in a manner that could only be described as, well, _dreamy_. (Not that he would admit it; he had a reputation to maintain.)

 _Then_ there had been every time he'd caught Leas staring at him with naked want and _care_ in his eyes, in a way no other man had ever looked at him. Though perhaps that time, it was the emotion rather than the eyes themselves that had drawn his attention. And after that was the first time they'd kissed, when Leas' eyes had shone with mingled disbelief and joy so intense it had caught his breath. And there was the moment when they had agreed to a relationship—there'd been the same giddiness again, the same overpowering _happiness_ , so utterly infectious, and all in his _eyes_ alone… To say nothing of their dance at the Winter Palace, he recalls as he muses. Leas had been tired, worn out, troubled and dirtied by his participation in the Game. But Dorian had only had to pull him into his arms, and that had all fallen away, replaced by more giddiness and utter glee. All the finely dressed nobles there'd been, all the splendour of the Winter Palace, and his eyes _alone_ had outshone them all.

There had also been—

"What do they say about eyes in Tevinter?" Leas asks, coming back from the bookshelf and leaning against the wall. Probably for the best—he is getting _embarrassingly_ deep into his musing. "My clanmates call me _U'vun'inan_ for my eyes—among other things—but what would your people say?"

"You'd get no small amount of attention," Dorian says. "Blue eyes are rare back home, as I said, and eyes like _yours_ would turn heads as much as they do here. But we prefer grey eyes. _Oculi argentei_. Most of our folk heroes have them. They're seen as the sign of powerful mages, of leaders worth following, of people worth putting your trust in. And as the height of beauty," he adds, and Leas grins and raises an eyebrow.

"The height of beauty? I guess I know now why you're so _vain_ ," he teases, and Dorian laughs.

"It wasn't only my eyes I heard so much about when I was in my adolescence," he says, grinning back at him. "And trust me—vanity isn't exactly _rare_ among the great families of Tevinter. We're arrogant in every way that counts."

Leas giggle and steps over to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, slow and gentle. "Well-earned, however, in your case," he says pointedly. Dorian's grin turns into a more genuine smile, and he ignores the sudden warmth in his cheeks. He does not _blush_ , no ser. Leas smirks. "It's nice to have something to stare at that's as pretty as I."

Dorian lets out a startled shout of laughter and lightly swats at him. " _Ass_ ," he says, while Leas grins smugly.

"What? You would say exactly the same thing."

"Yes, I suppose I would," he admits, and he rests his forehead on Leas'. Leas rubs them together and idly plays with his hair, the book in his other hand forgotten. While he does so, Dorian runs a hand up his neck, slowly. "I recognise flattery when I see it, _amatus_. What's your game here?" he asks, teasing as well.

Leas widens his eyes, giving him the most innocent, kicked-puppy look he's surely ever seen. " _Game?_ I don't have a _game_ … I was being nice."

"And flaunting yourself shamelessly all the while," Dorian reminds him, moving his hand down Leas' shoulder and arm, then to his back and lower. He stops when his fingers brush the top of Leas' rear, and his smile widens at the pink flush that stains the man's cheeks. "I'd almost say you put _me_ to shame, but you haven't quite managed that yet." He pulls Leas closer and speaks almost into his ear, wraps his arm around his waist. His mouth brushes against the point of the said ear.

Leas stiffens, as he always does when he senses a challenge. "Then how could I?" he murmurs back. "Truly?"

The idea pops into his head, clean out of nowhere. It's a risk, might be very public if someone interrupts—but for once, he doesn't care. Maker take propriety and scandal. If Leas can get away with allowing the assassination of the Empress of Orlais, they can certainly get away with _this_. He leans closer and whispers his idea, again into Leas' ear.

Leas responds by giggling like a child and, by way of saying 'yes', flinging his arms around him and pulling him into a very enthusiastic kiss.

* * *

They stumble back through the eluvian with seconds to spare, and Dorian cares not how they went straight from the temple to the room at Skyhold despite all Morrigan's talk of a 'Crossroads'. Iselen follows him, and he follows Solas and Morrigan. Once he has got his bearings, he turns back to wait for Leas, but several seconds pass, and nothing disrupts the mirror's smooth surface. _Oh, for the love of—not again, not again, kaffas, I_ will _kill you—_

Luckily for Leas, he passes through the eluvian in the same moment this thought crosses Dorian's mind and lands on his knees before them. He scrambles to his feet moments later, and Morrigan seals the eluvian. "It is done," she says, panting, and Leas nods and turns away. He keeps his head bowed, and Dorian does not see his eyes.

Rather, he looks to the others, sees Morrigan staring at Leas, peeved in the manner of one who has been denied something they felt they rightfully deserved. Sees Solas no less annoyed, staring at Leas with fury and terrible worry blazing in his eyes—echoes of the same emotions writhing in his own chest. Sees Iselen, grinning and gleeful, unconcerned, of course. Leas stands with his back to them, runs his hands over his face and through his slightly mussed red waves, and says nothing.

"Well?" Iselen presses after a moment. His bright blue eyes shine with excitement and joy, an exact replica of his brother's. "What do you hear? What do you see?"

"It's—it's a mess," Leas admits, with a weak chuckle. "So many voices, Creators! All speaking in elven, but I can—I can understand every word!" Here, Dorian blinks, and for a moment, he is distracted from his ire. Understand every word of a language lost millennia ago? That is… remarkable, yes. A triumph, even. "They're trying to tell me something, but there's so much noise—"

Iselen is no less taken aback. "You can understand?" he gasps. "The entirety of—?"

"Yes, I can. The whole language. I need to write it down. That'll take a while. But there's so much else—I don't even know how, where to begin…"

Iselen breaks into triumphant laughter and pounds his brother on the back. "Holy shit! You know the whole language! _Yes!_ " he crows, while Dorian stares flatly between them and Solas. Solas shakes his head. "This is brilliant! Just wait—you'll be the talk of the next Arlathvhen!"

"That I will be," Leas says. "This could be the find of the Age. Perhaps of several Ages."

 _And what about binding yourself to a goddess and her priests for all eternity?_ Dorian snarls to himself, mouth twisting with fury. _Does that not bother either of you short-sighted cretins?!_ Far be it from him to criticise their excitement over the knowledge, but what of the consequences?

"Tell me more!" Iselen says, grinning. "What else is there?"

Leas, however, shakes his head. He still doesn't look at them. " _Ir abelas_ , but there's too much. All talking, talking, talking. Whispers only, but so many of them. It's giving me a headache. I need to sort this out on my own. Give me a few hours, and I'll have something for you, I hope. Come up to my quarters."

"Damn right I will, at least," Iselen says. Leas inclines his head vaguely in his direction, and Iselen departs, laughing gleefully, looking every bit the victor. Morrigan follows him, and Leas after her. He rubs his temples as he goes, and he hunches his shoulders with his concentration.

When they have gone, Solas and Dorian stare at each other.

"Idiots," Dorian mutters.

"Indeed," Solas says grimly. "I suppose we shall see the consequences for ourselves in a few hours. Perhaps they will change their tune then."

"Perhaps," Dorian says, though he has little hope of such a thing. Both Leas and Iselen can be so stubborn, so blind, so naïve. In Leas' case, it is no longer endearing. It is _infuriating_.

He leaves without another word. His hands are trembling with anger.

* * *

A few hours later, in the mid-evening, the three of them head up the stairs to Leas' quarters. Iselen leads the way, and there's a definite spring in his step eerily reminiscent of his brother's. (No surprise, of course; for all their differences, the twins are still _twins_ , and their mannerisms are next to identical. Perhaps it is only because he has never seen Iselen so excited that Dorian finds it unusual.) Naturally, he pays no attention to Dorian and Solas' unease, nor does he wait for them to catch up to him before he rounds the next corner and continues up the following set of stairs.

For his part, Dorian almost plods along, dreading to find whatever awaits them in Leas' quarters. Normal, or the appearance of it, and yet _not_ so: so different as to be disturbing, at least to those of them who have working brains. _It is not your place to criticise,_ he reminds himself. _Perhaps the Imperium did not destroy Arlathan, but we_ did _destroy what remained. Can you blame them for wanting to recover this?_ As soon as this idea occurs to him, however, he remembers the talk of the geas and the binding to Mythal, and he decides that yes, he can. He scowls. Next to him, Solas looks no happier.

At the top of the stairs, Iselen presses open the door, and for once, he does them the courtesy of holding the door open and allowing them inside after him—even more unusual, given Iselen's general behaviour. But Dorian is so frustrated with his brother he doesn't think to question it, and they head up the last set of stairs in a silence that is both tense and almost companionable.

In the centre of the room that has become almost as familiar to Dorian as the library, Leas stands with his back to them, and he still rubs his temples as he did hours ago. Even from here, Dorian can see that his desk is littered with papers covered in hasty scribbles, scribbles he has no doubt will be utterly incomprehensible to him. _So much knowledge,_ he muses, and for a moment, he is curious. But the bloody _geas_ …

"How is it now?" Iselen says, by way of greeting. His voice trembles with such glee that when Dorian glances at him, he's surprised to see that the man is not literally bouncing on his feet.

"I've got the most incredible headache," Leas says, with a rueful chuckle. He still does not look at them. "It's starting to make a bit of sense, however. Slowly. I can… work things out, separate the voices a little. There's one fellow here who has _Babae_ 's name, actually," he adds, and Iselen laughs. "Rahnmyathis _or'Tarasyl'nin'an_ : the place of storms. But that's not what you're here for. I don't have anything concrete to offer, not yet, not much. But before we get into that, there is… one thing. Small, but you may find it alarming. There's been a slight… _physical_ change in addition to everything else."

Dorian's eyebrows fly up, and his stomach sinks slowly to his feet. " _Physical?_ What in the Maker's name does _that_ mean?" he says, and his voice sounds shakier than he'd intended.

Leas shrugs. "It's just my eyes. Nothing too serious. But again, a bit shocking. I'm not worried, but you may find it… well. Have a look for yourself."

He turns. His eyes are wide and glint in the candlelight, and they glimmer not blue, but the brightest gold.

Gold.

" _Fenedhis!_ " Solas cries. Dorian stumbles back, his own eyes bulging almost out of his head; the shock races through his veins and turns his blood to ice. Next to him, Iselen stares, blood draining from his face, his own eyes widening too.

"Gold?" he whispers. "They've… gone gold? But why? They're not supposed to be…"

Leas chuckles again, seeming blissfully unconcerned by the change. "They're like Abelas and the sentinels' now," he says. "Remember how their eyes were also gold? I suspect it's because they're bound to Mythal, as I am. That makes me wonder, why does Morrigan have gold eyes…" he muses. His _golden eyes_ go blank as he thoughtfully rubs his chin and stares off into the distance.

A moment's silence, and then Iselen lets out a loud, horrified cry. "No! No! Creators, _no!_ " he screams, and he buries his face in his hands.

Leas snaps out of his musing and shifts his gaze to his brother. "Iselen?"

Iselen murmurs something frantic and unintelligible, presumably in elven. Then he wails, echoing Dorian's sentiments exactly, "No! No! They're not supposed to be gold! They're supposed to be blue! And you're not—bound to Mythal? Creators, what does that _mean?!_ "

 _You should have considered this when you were urging him to drink from the bloody Well, you damned fool,_ Dorian thinks, and savage bitterness is in the words. Only the horror of those golden eyes keeps him from voicing it. He swallows and looks between the two of them, sympathising for once with Iselen's distress even as he admonishes him and hating the blank look on Leas' face. How can he not understand?

Leas, at this moment, raises his hands. "I don't know," he says in his most soothing voice. "But you were the one who advised me to take this path, Iselen."

Iselen shakes his head frantically. "I—I didn't think—shit! I _forgot_ about—or I didn't pay attention to the geas in all that _shemlen_ bitch's arrogance! I didn't—I wasn't thinking!" The words pour from his mouth, and Dorian is momentarily distracted from the image plastered in front of his eyes by his wonder at the fact that _Iselen_ , also named Solas—by his own brother—is admitting to being wrong. Then again, Abelas had shown him he was wrong about many things, hadn't he, as no one else could have. "No, you're not meant to be bound to a goddess! Not even to Mythal!" Iselen continues, in a quieter but rougher voice. "And your eyes are not meant to be gold! They're meant to be blue! Like ours—like _mine!_ "

"Precisely my sentiments," Dorian murmurs, at last finding his voice and an opportunity to speak. "Leas, how _could_ you?"

Leas shifts his gaze to him, and Dorian recoils from the _wrongness_ of that colour. His stomach and… something else… go into convulsions. "I could hardly give the Well to Morrigan, now, could I?" Leas says calmly. "It was not for her. I was well aware of the risks, but… they're worth it, I think, for a chance at the knowledge of the Well."

"It's more than just a risk," Solas snaps. For once, he and Dorian are in complete agreement, but Dorian is too busy burying his face in his hands to comment. Fire chases away and melts the ice in his veins, and his hands tremble with anger, the way they did hours ago. "There _will_ come a day when the consequences come calling! What will you do then?"

There is a brief pause, and Leas rubs his temples again. "I do not know," he says eventually. "That is one of those things we'll have to deal with when we come to it. There is nothing we can do _now_ , not as far as I can tell." He looks back at his brother. "Iselen, it's all right, I've got the knowledge of the Well, the language—I can make something good out of this."

Perhaps he can. Leas is good at that, isn't he? But how much will the consequences overshadow whatever good may come of this?

Iselen shakes his head, and when Dorian glances at him, he sees that his eyes are shining. Sympathy stirs a little louder in his heart (his heart, it's his heart that's convulsing with his stomach), and he does not question it. Self-righteous, sanctimonious ass Iselen may be, but he has learnt so much today that goes against everything he knows, and now he seems to have encouraged his own brother into a dreadful fate through his impetuousness. "All the knowledge in the world doesn't seem worth this price," he says, and for once, he sounds sorrowful rather than proud and angry. "Why did I tell you to drink?"

Leas smiles. "I would have drunk anyway, Iselen, even if you'd told me not to," he says. Dorian's mouth twists into a snarl. He'd assumed he'd got through to the man about learning to heed the consequences of his actions. Apparently not. Before he can say anything, Leas swallows and continues, "I will make the best of it that I can. I swear to you. And when the consequences come calling… we'll deal with them. I cannot promise any more than that."

Even as the inevitable protest rises in his throat, Dorian knows that Leas is right, that there truly is nothing more that can be done or said. What _he_ has to say… that had better wait until later, and judging by the look on Solas' face, he's thinking the same thing. So he nods tiredly and closes his eyes while the brothers talk, Iselen more subdued now than he has ever been. He prays, just as he did at Adamant and the Winter Palace, that Leas will come through this the way he has always done: mostly unscathed, carried out by a miracle.

It seems to be a running theme, doesn't it? _Festis bei umo canavarum_ indeed. It was half a joke once, but now…

How much longer can he bear it?

* * *

Sometime later, after they've exhausted the conversation and Leas' newfound _comprehensible_ knowledge, the three of them depart. Dorian is half-ready to make some excuse about why he cannot stay, but Leas permits him to leave without a word, no doubt because he needs more time to process what's now in his head. _I suppose he can let the voices in his head do it for him,_ he thinks as they head down the stairs, and the words are vicious. He knows that's not how it works, but he can't to bring himself to care.

At the bottom of the stairs, Solas excuses himself and stalks away, presumably back to his office. Iselen. However, remains where he stands and rests his head against the wall, slowly. For once, rather than leave his side as quickly as possible, Dorian watches him. Somehow, he suspects that Iselen will be much less insufferable company right now—and perhaps from now on.

After a few seconds' silence, Iselen lets out a long, low moan and looks at Dorian out of the corner of his eye. " _Fenedhis,_ " he says. "What are we going to do with him, Pavus?"

Dorian ignores the fact that Iselen has just said 'we' in relation to himself and a cursed _shemlen_. He's in no mood for pointing out such details. "I don't bloody know," he says, pinching his forehead and resting his other hand on his hip in his frustration. "Bloody moron! I _understand_ wanting to recover what my countrymen destroyed, but to submit to a geas? A _compulsion_? After all his talk about wanting to stay himself no matter what happened? He—" He stops for a moment, briefly unable to continue. Then he lets out a few choice words of Tevene.

"No more moronic than I," Iselen says, staring at the wall again. " _Tualanen ema lanaste_ , what have I done? Why did I tell him to drink?"

"You were angry with Morrigan," Dorian tells him, "and rightly so. And there was an opportunity in front of you you never would have got again if you'd passed it up. A chance for your people to make more strides in a day than they have in decades, perhaps. I'm not surprised you told him to drink."

Iselen shakes his head. "I should have paid more attention," he says, shoulders sagging. Dorian also notes that this is the longest they've gone without them snapping at each other, but again, he says nothing of it. "I should not have been so blinded by my anger that I neglected to hear what Abelas said, what _Leas_ said. And now…" Abruptly, he pushes off the wall, turns around, and sinks to the floor, utterly despondent. For once, Dorian looks down on him with only pity, not dislike. As he spots the man's eyes, sees the misery in that _blue_ , his stomach and heart do more convulsions. Will he ever see such blue in Leas' eyes again?

"And now this," Iselen continues. "Dammit. I came to Skyhold to _protect_ him, you know. To save him from crap like this. But what good have I done? I couldn't save him from the Fade, or from falling through time—sure, I wasn't there for that, but…" He breathes shakily, unsteadily. His eyes shine with more than just blue. "Now I've _encouraged_ him into binding himself to the will of an absent goddess. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! What good am I, Pavus, what am I doing here, if I just keep encouraging him to do shit like this?"

Dorian pauses, and all at once, Iselen seems entirely different to him. Not a haughty Dalish elf, arrogant beyond all belief, but a man trying to protect his brother and failing miserably every time. Pitiable. "You've always tried to protect him, haven't you?" he says carefully.

Iselen nods. "Yeah. Perhaps he didn't need it, but… He's always come first, from the day we were born to the day he was _named_ First, and beyond that. And I'm fine with that. I never wanted glory, just to serve my clan, and to look after him. _Mamae i Babae_ said I should… not that they needed to. But one day, he tried to save someone else, and he disappeared, and I thought I'd failed, that he was dead…" His voice shakes; he clenches the cloth of his trousers in his hands. "But he came back! And I never was so relieved. But he was different. He had all these stories of a wider world, of terrible things that I'd not been there to keep him safe from. And he was a different sort of mage: a _somniari_. Something not even Deshanna could understand. Shit, _nobody_ could understand him, not even me, not even _Mamae i Babae_. But I wasn't going to lose him again, so as he got distant from everyone else, I got closer to him. And tried to protect him. The ideas he had… I was so sure they were wrong. I thought they would lead him into a disaster. So I disagreed."

"To protect him."

"To protect him. Or, that was my _intention_. And I protected Adhlean, too, when he showed up, though we were only sixteen and knew nothing of parenthood. I couldn't protect him then, so I would protect them both now. And when I came to the Inquisition, I meant to protect them still. From Corypheus, from the Breach, from the humans…" His mouth twists; bitterness joins sorrow in the lines of his face. "But what good is that? He remained close to us, but he drew away as well. Let the humans claim him, and I couldn't stop them. He pursued _you_ , a Tevinter. And I couldn't understand how he could be so foolish, so…"

Dorian stiffens. "You called him a flat-ear when you found out," he says quietly. "A grave insult, he told me. I found him _bawling_ in his rooms afterwards. He had a total breakdown! Were you protecting him then?"

Iselen grimaces and looks away, and Dorian is uncertain if his expression is apologetic or not. "I believed I was. I was angry, but I thought if I could make him see how foolish he was being… But you comforted him, did you not? And he's told you things he's never told me. It seemed to me that was being an idiot, so besotted he would blab away his secrets to a _shemlen_. But now… maybe it was me."

Dorian arches an eyebrow. " _Maybe?_ "

"All right, yeah, it was. Creators, I was so blind. Solas… Leas nicknamed me well. But I just wanted to keep him _safe_ ," he grits out, and the first tears spill from his eyes. "Not—this! Never mind the fact he seems to trust you more than me. I'll have to regain his trust. And apologise. But what am I going to tell _Mamae i Babae_? What am I going to tell Adhlean? That I tried to protect him and failed utterly?"

"He would say you haven't failed. He's still alive and kicking," Dorian says, but the words ring hollow even to him.

"For the time being. His luck'll run out eventually," Iselen says tiredly. He climbs to his feet and wipes his eyes. "Golden eyes, _shit_. _Vallaslin_ and hair aside, we're supposed to be identical! This is just _wrong!_ "

"Tell me about it," Dorian mutters. "Our poor, foolish man. Perhaps between the pair of us, we might have a better chance of succeeding."

Iselen stares at him for a long moment, then sighs and shrugs. "I guess so. Can't be too picky, I guess. He really likes you. And he always wanted…"

He hesitates then, and Dorian cringes and steels himself for the 'sibling-and-lover' talk he's been dreading for far longer than he cares to admit. At that moment, however, the door opens, and Adhlean peers in. Iselen jumps.

" _Ba'isa'ma'lin!_ " Adhlean cries out, grinning and jumping forward to hug his uncle. "How did you get back here so fast? Weren't you in the Arbour Wilds?"

Iselen pats his nephew on the head and returns the embrace. "Long story. Has your _lenalin_ told you about the eluvian yet?"

Adhlean shakes his head. "Not much. I'll ask him when I get up there." He breaks away from Iselen and looks at Dorian. His eyes are wide and blue, inherited from his father. Dorian's stomach and heart turn over yet again. " _Savhalla_ , Dorian. Excuse me, but you both look kinda pale. Is something wrong?"

The pair of them share another glance, and Dorian grimaces and looks away. "A… little wrong, I guess," Iselen answers awkwardly. "Ask your _lenalin_. Neither of us can… really explain." He shifts on his feet, gaze darting here and there. Adhlean's brow furrows, but after a moment, he nods.

"But you won, didn't you?" he says.

"We won," Iselen says. "I think we've got Corypheus on the run now. It's just… a lot of crazy things happened at the Temple." He rubs his forehead.

Adhlean briefly rests his head in his uncle's chest. "I'm sure it'll be all right, _Ba'isa'ma'lin_ ," he says, speaking with all the naïve optimism of children, a trait that exists in Tevinter as much as it must surely do among the Dalish. "See you tomorrow?"

Iselen nods, clearly tired, and they murmur elven goodbyes to each other. Then Adhlean waves to Dorian and Dorian inclines his head politely towards him. For once, rather than shying away from him, the boy smiles before heading up the stairs. A positive development, he supposes, though he finds no succour in it.

When he's out of earshot, Dorian shakes his head again. "He'll be in for quite a shock," he says.

"Yeah, well, what can you do?" Iselen mutters bitterly. "I guess it's as Leas said. Can't do anything about it _now_. Wish that satisfied me."

"I'm not certain it could ever satisfy anyone," Dorian tells him, and Iselen nods. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to find a bottle of Tevinter wine to crack open and drown myself in."

Iselen's mouth twists with sardonic humour. "I'd ask to join you, but I need something stronger than wine," he remarks dryly, and that _he_ of all people just (almost) asked to share a drink with him is nearly enough to distract Dorian from the writhing of his insides and the fury burning in his heart. Nearly.

"Well, let's not drink ourselves to death," Dorian says. "Somebody needs to protect the poor idiot from the voices in his head. And from _himself_ ," he adds darkly.

"That we do," Iselen agrees, and with that, they part ways. As he makes his way back to his quarters to find the aforementioned bottle of wine, the words he wants to say to Leas begin to take shape in his mind. Even hours later, when he has passed the point where he'll undoubtedly have a hangover in the morning, they—and the sight of Leas' _oculi aurei_ —remain clear as crystal.

* * *

A couple of days later, long after the hangover has come and gone and he's had more time to consider his words, Dorian stalks up to Leas' quarters. Much like Iselen before him, he does not bother knocking before shoving open the door and heading inside. When he steps out onto the landing, there is no easy smile on his face, nor does any flippant remark rise to his lips. He eyes Leas like a predator does its prey.

Leas looks up at the sound of his entrance, and their eyes meet across the room, grey to gold. Despite his anger, a shudder runs through him again. There is a silence, then Leas puts his quill to one side and stands up. He comes around his desk and crosses the room until he stands only a pace or so away. To his credit, he does not reach out for him, but Dorian remains wary. "Nothing to say for yourself? No greeting to offer?" he asks acidly.

"I'm not as blind as I once was, Dorian," Leas says. His voice, in contrast, is neutral. "A greeting would only upset you further. You have something to say. I won't stop you from saying it."

Dorian's hand clenches into a fist, and he blows out a breath through his nose. _Damn_ the man and his ability to be so reasonable. "What a change," he comments, though the words are not part of his script. "Not so long ago it took _effort_ to make you see what I was feeling, even if it was plain on my face. I wonder what caused this development? The will of the goddess whom you now serve, I guess?" He strokes his chin with mock thoughtfulness and stares Leas down.

Leas ducks his head for a moment. "I hope not," he says. "This change _you_ brought about, that night when you told me how immature and selfish I was for ignoring our problems. The Well had nothing to do with it. But that's not what you mean." He takes a deep breath and catches Dorian's gaze again, unruffled. "I'm still myself, Dorian. I swear it. Save for the voices, my mind feels no different from how it was before."

"How can I _believe_ that? Your eyes alone are proof enough of the opposite!" Dorian snaps. The fury starts to boil over earlier than he'd intended. He paces past Leas to the desk and folds his arms as he turns back around to face him again.

"Dorian, _please_ ," Leas says, and he stares at him with his patented kicked-puppy look. It was so endearing before, and perhaps it is now, for only the _colour_ of his irises is different—but that's just it. The colour changes everything. If his eyes had not been so vivid before, they possibly might not be a problem now. "It's just my _eyes_. I haven't sprouted another head or anything. It's just—"

And there he goes, missing the point again. That familiarity would be reassuring if he hadn't missed it so _badly_. " _Kaffas!_ I know it's just your eyes! But they're meant to be _blue!_ Not gold!"

Amid his rage, some part of him wonders _why_ he is making such a big deal of this, of Leas' eyes. It may only be because they symbolise something far worse, a connection that he cannot comprehend and that may never be sundered. Yet there's a certain _wrongness_ in those irides now, something profoundly unsettling, something that should not be. He thinks back on every other time he gazed into those eyes, enjoyed their vivid but _natural_ blue, and his heart and stomach once again go into convulsions. Dreadful, that this part of Leas he— _favours_ so much—should be ruined.

 _Overdramatic,_ he tells himself. _It_ is _just his eyes. What is it, then, if it's not you throwing a tantrum about one of your favourite features of his?_ Some small part of him strikes near to the answer, and he shudders and shies away from it before he can even name it to himself.

"I know!" Leas says. "But I'll live. There are worse things that could have happened…" For half a moment, Dorian wonders why he is so blithely unconcerned about his eyes. Does he really care so little for them that the change in colour bothers him not at all, though they have been blue for twenty-six years? No, that is absurd. The man is far too vain for that. So _why_ …

Irrelevant. They can deal with that later. There are more important things to discuss. " _Worse?_ " he snarls. "Worse than binding yourself to a goddess for all eternity?!"

A pause, the sort of pause that only occurs when someone belatedly realises something obvious to everyone else. Once again, as Dorian runs his hand over his face in frustration, the word _blennus_ rather than _amatus_ is first in his thoughts. "That's what you're really worried about, isn't it?" Leas says, indeed only getting it just _now_ , and Dorian groans. "Not my eyes, but the binding."

"Oh, finally he works it out! _Yes,_ that's what worries me!" He removes his hand from his face and stares almost incredulously at Leas. "How _could_ you? I thought you promised you wouldn't keep risking yourself like this!" A promise made in the aftermath of their lengthy discussion about how immature and selfish Leas was being and how much worry he was causing him: a conversation that had turned their relationship from its first fumbling steps to _more_. A meaningless promise, perhaps, he wonders now, and an old, familiar ache gnaws within his convulsing guts, but worse than it ever was in Tevinter. Why that might be…

Almost across the room, Leas visibly swallows, eyes widening in the way they do when he's nervous. "This was important to me, Dorian," he says. "The knowledge of my people, the power of the Well… I couldn't give them to Morrigan, not when they didn't belong to her, and I couldn't give them up for the risks, either."

Every word is so carefully chosen, so obviously designed not to upset Dorian further, but Leas makes a critical error in mentioning the 'power of the Well'. For half a moment, Dorian is almost speechless, jaw working soundlessly, then he crosses over to Leas in a few quick steps. Leas' eyes only widen further, but he remains rooted to the spot, leaning back in the face of Dorian's ire.

"The knowledge I understand," he hisses, ignoring the trembling of his hands and the ever-more-powerful convulsions in his gut and heart that will _not_ be ignored. "But _power?_ How much power do you need?!" For half a moment, as the words leave his mouth, he's back home in Minrathous, watching his father's fellows sacrifice everything for the sake of a little more power, and he sees red. He grabs Leas by the shoulders, none too gently, and he stares down at him with fury blazing in his eyes and every line of his face. Leas stiffens, but he does not otherwise resist. Whether or not that's to his credit, the last rational part of Dorian's mind remaining does not know.

"In case you needed reminding, you're already a First of your people, which is to possess magic even my people know little about! _And_ you're a knight-enchanter! Among the finest mages in Thedas, as Vivienne says! _And_ , as if that weren't enough, you're a _somniari_! A rarity, to say the least, and it gives you _power_ most can only dream of! But you say you need _even more?!_ " The rage overtakes him, and he shakes Leas, hard. Leas gasps and looks away, but does not step back. "You're starting to sound like a magister! Really, you are!" Starting to sound precisely like the thing Dorian fled from in the first place, but worse in that his hunger is covered up with sweet-sounding words, and he would only have to bat his eyelashes and Dorian would be enthralled. No magic required.

A long pause, and Leas still does not look at him. As his vision clears, Dorian sees how his fingers are digging into Leas' shoulders, and his breath leaves him. He shook him. None too gently. Angry he may be, but that is an _unacceptable_ response. Slowly, he lets go, and his anger drains away, leaving him with nothing but the flips his heart and stomach are still doing. Why?

Why such rage at Leas turning out to be no different from those he'd fled from? And at his eyes no longer being as they were? Anger is justifiable, yes, but rage of this degree? Why?

And he could go further back, couldn't he? Why does he call him _amatus_ , knowing what it means? And why was the sight of Leas' _oculi caeruli_ , sparkling with joy, always enough to make his heart skip a beat and lift his mood to almost impossible heights? Why did he go to such pains to make Leas understand how unacceptable his earlier behaviour was? And why now does he muse over every moment they share, big and small—from surviving the Fade to their dance at the Winter Palace, from their first night together to the moment he heard Leas' first faltering attempts at Tevene? Why did Leas' _oculi caeruli_ draw him in so much beyond the physical attraction? Why do the _oculi aurei_ repulse him so?

The answer to the second to last comes first. Because it was the emotions in his _oculi caeruli_ that drew him in, far more than the colour. The answer to the last follows from there. Because while the same feelings linger in them, the _oculi aurei_ represent something terrible, a compulsion that makes Leas someone else's creature even though he has only ever wanted to be his _own_ creature. They both come in blinding flashes that illuminate the magnitude of his folly, of everything he has been trying to ignore and deny, and cast it all in too stark a light for him to be mistaken again. The other answers follow in quick succession from there—but it does not matter. There is only _one_ answer.

And suddenly, he rather feels like he's taken a war hammer to the chest. His mind goes still and silent.

This would be his luck, wouldn't it? To spend years waiting for… for _more_ and at last find it with a man who must surely possess the worst luck in Thedas, who has no regard for his own safety, who lives every day like it's his last. (But who's so kind and sweet and such a joy to be around, who makes him laugh, who cares for him despite all his innocent selfishness, who understands and accepts everything Dorian is, who has faith unfaltering, who supports his dreams of a better Tevinter, who… is… everything to him.) It is almost to be expected, isn't it, that he would… want more and even more… with someone who, in the grand scheme of things, he can't have. How could he have a man who is a father, and will one day be a Keeper, and who his people would never accept? How can he have a man who keeps merrily risking himself despite his pleas, who has bound himself forever to the will of a goddess of whom Dorian knows nothing?

Where is the future there? Is there anything more in that future other than pain?

He lets out a long, shuddering breath and turns away. If the world blurs for a moment, if he finds himself blinking to clear his vision, nobody needs to know anything about that, least of all this bloody idiot. "Dorian," the man murmurs, soothing, as if Dorian _hadn't_ just shouted in his face and shook him like a ragdoll. But of course, he is. Why _wouldn't_ he be? He's always so kind and caring and patient no matter what people do or say to him. He would belong to the lowest rung of Tevinter society because of his pointed ears, but he is infinitely nobler and worthier than the highest magisters, or so Dorian reckons it. What is he doing with _him_?

That old thought sets his stomach and heart convulsing again, worse than ever. His chest is burning, and his ribs seem close to breaking under the building pressure. His throat closes, and he let outs a small, ragged breath. "I can't keep doing this," he somehow manages to force out as he turns away, towards the stairs. His voice cracks nearly as badly as it did when he confronted his father.

Perhaps he shouldn't. There's _more_ , right here. All he has to do is turn around. But how can he, when Leas' eyes are gold, and he seems determined to risk his life at every turn? "I should—I should just _go_ ," he continues, the words coming out in almost a whisper and almost from between his teeth. "Spare us both the trouble. If you can't stop risking yourself, confident your luck will carry you through every time—if I have to keep looking in your _golden eyes_ and wonder on each occasion whether it's truly you or something, someone else—I can't bear it, _amatus_." _Amatus_ , he says, and just this once, Dorian means it more literally than he ever did before. Right at the end, of course. Such is his luck.

Another long pause, then Leas says, still quiet and soothing, but faintly troubled underneath, "Go, if you wish." Just like that? Letting him leave so easily? He rubs at his eyes again while the self-loathing rises to choke him. "But would that help? Or would it make things worse?" He says it as though he _knows_ what Dorian's thinking, what he's feeling, and Dorian shudders.

He knows the answer at once. Nothing could help them now, and it would be an exquisite form of torture to _go_ but remain, to watch Leas but be unable to help him in any meaningful way. It would be like voluntarily amputating a limb or tearing his own heart from his chest. It's too late to leave, isn't it, for all that Leas offers the choice. Too late, because he has… has _more_. Impossibly. Somehow.

And he would hate for Leas to face this without him, wouldn't he?

Finally, his shoulders sag, and he sighs. "It'd make things worse, of course," he concedes. "I just…" The words are raw, especially by his standards, but not raw enough. "I can't bear to see your eyes like this, knowing what it means…" Can't bear to see him always in danger, can't bear to think of a life without him, can't bear to think of the future, can't bear to do any number of things.

Can hardly bear to _love_ him, at the same time.

Leas abruptly takes his wrist in his hand, and afterwards, Dorian won't be sure if he was forced to turn around or if he let himself be turned, or if he turned of his own volition. In any case, he ends up facing Leas again, their arms secure around each other while Leas tucks his head into his shoulder. He does not resist, and the thought to leave is already fading. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Dorian, _ara lath_ ," Leas says, speaking a different word from _arasha_. He wonders for half a moment, but he needn't do so for long. _Lath_ sounds similar enough to… "There's nothing we can do now," he adds, and Dorian knows that he is right.

"But when—if ever—this Mythal comes calling?" he asks, finally speaking in a steadier voice. "What then?"

"Then we'll have to take it as it comes. I honestly cannot think of anything we can do _at the moment_. I know…" Leas blows out a shuddering breath. "I know why you're angry. I don't blame you. But please… have some faith in me. I _will_ work this out. _We_ will. Or if not… we'll make a damn good show of it. And in the meantime… I'll do the best that I can with the knowledge I've been granted. That is all I can promise, and you _know_ it." Here, Leas pulls away a little to look him square in the eye, and Dorian forces himself to hold his gaze despite the wrongness of that gold. If he observes him… there is that intensity he always has when making a plan or a promise, and there is his sincerity. Both are unchanged. His muscles relax slightly. "I will not lie to you for the sake of your comfort."

Dorian exhales and rests his forehead on Leas'; Leas rubs them together for a moment in a calming gesture. "I suppose I should appreciate your honesty," he concedes. He swallows, calming himself. "And I… I apologise. I should not have shaken you, _amatus_ , or made such accusations, or been so distrustful. I know you made that choice for a reason. I should be supporting you, not screaming at you."

"You had your reasons," Leas says with a familiar smile. "But do not shake me again. That was uncalled for. I feared for half a moment you might do worse."

He grimaces and bows his head, contrite. "I will _never_ ," he says softly. "You…" Then he hesitates. The words stick in his throat. Needed they are, but they sound empty. Meaningless. They were hollow lies in Tevinter, and he will offer Leas more than that. There are other words he can offer, all in Tevene, but when he considers them, they sound too much, too sentimental. Leas is sentimental enough for the both of them, perhaps, but _more_ —love—has not entered the equation before (or has it?). No need to scare him off. For a long moment, he casts about for _something_.

But all that comes is, "Bloody fool. You've got _me_ tongue-tied. There's an achievement," and for once, he wants to kick himself, as familiar as the flippancy is.

Leas giggles and lifts a hand to stroke his cheek. "Isn't it ironic?" he murmurs, the way he always does when they talk about _them_. Then he stands up on his toes and kisses him, slowly and sweetly, and finally, it occurs to Dorian that it's possible he understands.

"Stay, and help me," Leas says when he pulls away an inch or two. His eyes are gold, but glinting with the same fire and kindness and _more_ as ever. "That's all I ask. I won't demand anything more of you," he adds, the way every other man he's had has _not_. Just for that, Dorian can't resist pulling him back in for another, longer, deeper kiss.

Maybe he understands. And for the moment, even with Leas' eyes gone gold and unnatural, even with the geas hanging over his head like a storm cloud—one that he's blissfully choosing to ignore—maybe that can be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> **Translations**
> 
> _"U'vun'inan."_ : "Starry eyes."
> 
>  _"Tualanen ema lanaste."_ : "Creators have mercy."
> 
>  _"Ba'isa'ma'lin."_ : "Uncle."
> 
>  _"Savhalla."_ : "Hello."
> 
>  _"Lenalin."_ : "Father."
> 
>  _"Blennus."_ : "Idiot."
> 
>  _"Ara lath."_ : "My love."
> 
> All translations except for _blennus_ taken from FenxShiral's [Project Elvhen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883/chapters/7825850).


End file.
